Clockwork
by amidoh
Summary: With his archnemesis finally gone, Basil is left with several cases that are not nearly so grasping. Memories in tow, what starts off as serenity may quickly turn into a nightmare as a complex web of conspiracies to utterly crush his spirit unfolds.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Based on Basil of Baker Street by Eve Titus and Basil the Great Mouse Detective, Disney's adaptation. Characters therefore not mine; I'm only playing with them to satisfy my own odds and ends. Hehehehehe.

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It had started with dreams, that was what stopped Basil from taking any real notice. He hated dreams, of course - there was no _fact,_ no scrap of solid evidence in any of them that they could ever be anymore than subconscious fantasies. So these dreams of Ratigan again, they were dismissed as unimportant, put to the back of the detective's mind as he carried on with any cases as normal. Success after success followed Olivia Flaversham's departure and Ratigan's fall from St Stephen's Tower, when Big Ben struck ten on that terrible, rainy night.

Scars remained from that battle atop the tower, deep ridges in Basil's arm, chest and back from where Ratigan's claws had raked him. Fur refused to grow in those patches, serving as a constant reminder of his near death.

Cases since then, though fraught with danger, had seemed somehow dull; he had yet to find himself once again dangling three hundred feet in the air, clutching onto the skeleton of a broken zeppelin for dear life. With Doctor Dawson by his side, life was never _boring, _but at the same time, it never had that thrill that he had once known. As for the perpetrators of the crimes he solved presently... suffice to say, none of them were quite as criminally insane or as shrewd and intelligent as the sewer rat had been.

Tonight, then, was a night like any other. After a hard day of forensic investigation, Basil had brought the mastermind of a small opium ring to justice. Now, clad in his purple dressing-gown, a lit pipe in one hand and the day's newspaper in the other, he collapsed in his armchair for a well-deserved rest.

"I rather fancy a bit of culture tonight, do you not agree, Basil?" The voice of his colleague Dawson caught his attention away from the headlines.

"Hmm... not in the slightest. I am feeling quite tired. Perhaps I shall walk with you to the theatre, though, and see what is on the programme?" After all, they hadn't been out to the theatre or the opera together for weeks. The newspaper was neatly folded and deposited on the pouffe, the pipe extinguished and the dressing-gown exchanged for a brown overcoat and deerstalker hat.

"A night out might do you good, old chap. You _have_ been working yourself terribly hard recently, eh?" Dawson winked at the super-sleuth, holding the door for Basil as they stepped onto the street. There had been rain earlier, so the cobblestones were still wet and the moon shone off the grey in an odd way, casting eerie shadows as the mice walked along the pavement. In the distance, Big Ben tolled out the eighth hour of the evening to the sound of horses' hooves on the roads. In all, it was another typical London night.

It was a pleasant walk to the theatre, in all, though from the humidity in the air and the decreasing heat, Basil deduced that there was a storm fast approaching. Seeing the good doctor to the theatre only proved that there was nothing playing that he wanted to watch (_the choice was between one of the famous William Mousespeare's plays or Christopher Mouselow's 'Ratstus' - either way, both he had seen before_), so Basil said his adieu to Dawson and began a leisurely stroll back to Baker Street, taking a diversion along the new Thames embankment that the humans had erected.

The river could be beautiful at night, what with the flickering reflections of the stars and street lamps, but the thin mist that hung above water at this time of year gave the setting an almost supernatural feel. Basil could not help but perch on the leg of a bench and watch over the waters for awhile. An ache in his arm brought his mind straight back to the past. His eyes lit upon the clock tower as he carefully massaged the persistant scar.

Ratigan's body had never been found, which left the professor himself and the bat Fidget as the only two of Ratigan's gang unaccounted for. Basil had seen the heartless genius plunge his subordinate out of the skies into the Thames; it was only natural to assume that the crippled bat had drowned there. It was less believable that Ratigan would have fallen into the river... unless the wind was in the right direction to blow him that way. It was a possibility, of course, and it was the only likely possibility there was. After all, there was no way anyone could have survived that fall.

What a terrible night that had been. The aching wounds over his small body reminded Basil of this constantly, but empathy - something he had learned from that very case, from that little girl Olivia - caused him to wonder what Dawson and Flaversham the toymaker had felt, at seeing the great detective mauled, beaten and mangled, being helpless to go to his aid. Even now he could see the horror on their faces as they watched Ratigan drag him down to his death... or, that would have been the result, if not for his quick thinking. As always.

The clouds were closing in. It seemed Basil had been right about the rain. The first droplets advanced towards him down the river as he rose from the bench to continue his now-brisk walk to Baker Street. The shower was quick to turn into a heavy pounding storm. Thunder tore through the skies and flashes of lightning illuminated the alleyway shortcut that Basil was hurrying down, deerstalker clutched tightly over his head.

There was a strange 'woosh'ing noise all around him, but the mouse put it down to the winds whipped up by the storm; he was little suspecting that a pair of claws would clamp over his mouth and nose, or that, as some sort of rag was pressed up to his face, a sickly smell would permeate his mind, overwhelming him and numbing all his senses into oblivion...


	2. Over Reichenbach?

There was a great pain in Basil's head as he attempted to open his eyes. The whole world felt as though it was spinning, to the extent that he wasn't even sure whether he was standing, sitting, or, for that matter, even on the ground at all. As the feeling came back to him, the dective became aware of something icy cold and unwelcomingly hard against most of his body. Slowly, the stone floor came in to focus and the mouse became aware that he was lying on it. There was a funny taste in his mouth.

...Chloroform?

Well, that certainly explained the sudden loss of consciousness and the aching head. Blast! How could he have been so careless? With his photograph plastered all over the newspapers as it was these days, how careless to allow himself to be caught unawares in a dark alleyway on his own!

Basil clenched his hand into a fist, about to punch anything in frustration, but another worrying fact made itself known to him when he found he was unable to move his arms from behind his back. It seemed that somebody had taken the liberty of tying his wrists together tightly, and every little movement rubbed the rope painfully against his skin. There was a strange stinging in his legs and, oddly enough, his calves felt colder than his thighs. Hmm. Did that mean his trousers were ripped? That probably meant that he'd been dragged from where he'd fallen to... wherever this dank hole was.

A sudden flare of light through the dark dazzled Basil, causing him to flinch away and close his eyes in pain as, with a heavy metallic creak, what seemed to be the only door to the small cell swung open. When the mouse detective could again open his eyes, there was a figure silhouetted in the bright light of the doorway. The dull red glow of a cigarette caught in the smoke exhaled by this new, sickeningly familiar shape...

"My dear detective," The voice that cut through the dark room filled Basil with a bubbling, almost uncontrollable rage, causing him to bring his shoulders up tense and arrange his face into a hateful snarl. That pseudo-gentleman tone, it could only belong to one rodent, but logically it shouldn't have been possible... surely he was dead... "I did expect you to be awake at least half an hour ago. It's rather disappointing."

The nefarious face of Professor Ratigan loomed into the mouse's vision as his eyes became accustomed to the light. The maniacal villain slid up to his helpless captive with a sadistic grin.

"Have you become careless, Basil of Baker Street? The _Great Detective_ that stepped in my way so often would _never_ have allowed himself to be taken by surprise like that." Two claws spidered up Basil's chest. "You were _nothing_ if not paranoid." The claws ripped back down, tearing straight through the thin brown waistcoat and at the shirt and fur underneath.

"You... you despicable..." The detective had trouble speaking through his grit teeth, trying to reel away from the cruel gloved hands but finding himself against the wall. "How the deuce did you survive the fall?"

"Irritating little pipsqueak, as though I would allow you to win this war that we fight. Now, though... _I've_ won! I've finally won, ha ha!" Ratigan chuckled madly to himself, feeling his archnemesis' green-eyed glare upon him, speaking between giggles. "Are you a gambling mouse, detective? I have a coin here, you see. Hmm, shall we say... on heads, you stay here for a while, on tails I leave you to rot?"

Basil closed his eyes in anguish as his captor burst into bouts of insane laughter; there was nothing he could do to escape from this predicament, Ratigan was still alive and back to plotting... it was terrible. All his work, that fight atop the belltower... it had all been in vain? What a blow to such a fragile ego as his, where one dead end, one false lead, one mocking voice could send him into paroxysms of grief. He could no longer meet the professor's eyes, instead letting his head loll, blank stare lighting upon the wall.

"Ooohh, what's this?" Ratigan's attention was caught by the furless ridges showing through the torn clothes on Basil's chest and he gave the shreds a flamboyant flick to the side so he could get a better look. "Claw marks... Hm, heehee.." One white glove was elegantly removed and Ratigan drew his index claw along the longest line, reopening the wound, deepening it, spattering his sleeve and wettening the detective's white shirt with blood.

With a flourish, the huge rat licked his claw clean before tickling his captive's chin with it. "I love this. Oooh, I love it, I love it! ... So long, _Basil_." The door slammed, plunging the room into darkness once again.

Rapidly sinking into a depressed stupor, Basil vaguely tried in his mind to sort out the questions - or, more accurately, lack of answers - that he had. How had Ratigan survived? Why was he, Basil, here? Where _was_ here? What was this in aid of? ... Would he get out alive? It wasn't often that the Great Detective of Mousedom doubted himself, but with his bipolar mood conditions and the onset of this despair, it was only natural.

His chest smarting and oozing blood, Basil tried his hardest to curl into a ball, hands behind his back as they were. If he was honest with himself... Ratigan terrified him sometimes. The professor was bigger, stronger and tougher than the mouse sleuth, and, while Basil had morals and rules he adhered to, the villain was ruthless, cruel and utterly unashamed of, even revelling in death and torture. It was none of this that set Basil into such deep pits of self-pity, though; it was his enemy's mind. The shrewd cunning genius behind the beast's body... was enviable, and Basil sometimes wasn't sure whether he could compare.


	3. Pips of Deceit

Time seemed to stand still in the small, dark room that Basil now inhabited. There was no daytime, and thus no nighttime either. At no point did anybody come with food, not even scraps, so there was no knowing when mealtimes were. In his delirious state, however, Basil did not notice his hunger, or much else. He was dead to the world, and only his occasional loud sigh showed that he was conscious, or even alive. Barely blinking, barely breathing, the mouse of notorious conceit lay prone on the cold stone floor, consumed utterly by his own failure to anticipate the possibility of hostility towards him and the bitter knowledge that Ratigan had come out on top.

What a sight the genteel detective was now; haggard, emaciated and covered in dirt and bloodstains, patches of fur sticking to his torn clothing, blank green stare being the only semblance of life in the gaunt features.

Dawson wouldn't be worried, of course he wouldn't. He was probably used to Basil's habit of disappearing on a case for days by now. That fact, of course, was more a blow than a comfort, but then, what would his friend think of him if he could see the great sleuth like this? ... Actually, come to think of it, Dawson had seen him in a severe low before, hadn't he? In another of Ratigan's traps, no less. Yet... instead of disowning Basil's friendship, Dawson had encouraged him to regain his senses, and they had ended up escaping. If Dawson were here now...

He would say the very same.

The life came back into Basil's green eyes all of a sudden as he seemed suddenly to regain full consciousness with a determined and triumphant grin. With a little bit of thought, this prison would be nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Hmm. From the smell of it, this place was the cellar of a low-class public house. That made this even easier, of course. Groping around on the floor with his spare hand, the mouse found what he was looking for in a gap between two of the flagstones. The edges if it were still sharp - excellent.

With no fear, Basil made a cut down the back of his shackled wrist, away from the blood vessels and nowhere near deep enough to cause any lasting damage. The blood stuck his fur together, but slid against the metal chains, and, with much wriggling, the detective managed to wrestle his hand free of the manacle. Rubbing his sore arm, Basil moved quietly up to the door, running long nimble fingers over the handle and the lock.

... It wasn't locked!? What on earth -? Was Ratigan slipping? Forgotten to lock the door? It didn't really seem like a very Ratigan thing to do, but... well, there was no point complaining. Basil carefully snuck up the stairs, keeping to the shadows and looking around furtively. Just as he had suspected, the building over the cellars was a seedy, run down public house; not at all hard to sneak out of, what with most of the occupants being either paralytic or absorbed with fighting each other.

That meant that there was only one pressing problem left to face before the safe return to Baker Street: his clothes, or lack thereof. In midwinter, in Mousetorian London, it was not customary to wander about the streets clad in ripped garments and stiff with dried blood and dust. Should he spend too long in the cold, he could suffer pneumonia or hypothermia and very well lose his life, but were he to take known shortcuts down back alleyways, a handsome bachelor like he dressed as he was would be beset upon by all manner of whores and vipers, the very scum of London's night. Whomsoever had drugged him had taken the liberty of removing all his valuables from the pockets of his coat, which left him with no money to hire a hansom. This was... most inconvenient.

Basil was on the verge of giving up hope of a solution to this problem when a large apron hanging on a hook by the bar caught his eye. Well, well. That would suffice. Sneaking an empty glass from the bar, the detective threw it to the other side, between the wall and the table nearest, to distract the innkeeper's attention while he spirited the apron from its hook, wrapping it about himself and stealing away into the cold.

As fast as fury, the detective hurried his way through main, well-lit roads to Baker Street. To his great and pleasant surprise, the pub he had ended up in was just on the outskirts of the Soho sector of Central London, on the other side of New Oxford Street to Baker Street, but still only a short walk away. It was with great relief that Basil knocked upon the door of 221 1/2 Baker Street and saw Dawson's curious face as the stout doctor opened the door.

"Good grief! Basil!" Dawson's eyes took in the beer-stained apron, the ragged clothes, the tired eyes and bloody fur as he let the sleuth back into his house. "What on Earth happened? Come come, now, sit down, we must clean that before it becomes infected!"

"Foul business afoot, old fellow." Basil exhaled as he sank into one of the high-backed armchairs in front of the fire, closing his eyes as the doctor brought a small tin kettle of water from the kitchen and began to heat it over the fire, wetting an old cloth with it to gently mop at the scabbing wounds over his chest and wrist. "It seems that I have another case on my hands."

"Not before time! I wondered when you were going to do something about this, Basil. It's all over the papers, you know."

"... Dawson, I -" Basil winced as his wrist stung in protest against the warm water, "I believe we are talking at cross-purposes. About which case are you speaking?"

The good doctor obligingly placed the cloth down and fetched a recent newspaper for his detective friend, turning it to the correct page, where the headline 'Queen's Detective Serves Only Royalty'.

"'The hero of the infamous attempted usurping of the throne of England, detective Basil of Baker Street, has recently shown his true colours,'" Basil read aloud from the article, "'It appears that this supersleuth only offers his services to those able and willing to pay large amounts of money or great honours. In light of the recent medal awarded to him by Queen Mousetoria for his foiling of the plan to take over the monarchy, conceived and executed by notorious criminal Professor P Ratigan, Basil of Baker Street has all but disappeared as a crime-fighting service. Following the reports of the recent murders, many sources, including one of our own journalists, have called upon the famous detective, and have all been told the same thing: Basil of Baker Street is indisposed and is not able to see you.' ... Is this true, Dawson?"

"I fear they exaggerate the numbers a little with their wording, but there were indeed a substantial number of callers last week while you were away. I assumed you would have known about them, of course..." Dawson replied from the vicinity of Basil's chest, where he was again tending the claw mark.

"A _week_? Are you quite sure? I thought it could be no more than two, maybe three days."

"By no means, Basil. You've been gone for six days." The doctor wrang the water from his cloth onto the fire, standing back to take a look at his friend. "By George. You look as if you are in good need of a square meal. Come, now. I'll ask Mrs Judson to cook something up. Besides, if these blasted murders aren't the cases to which you were referring, what is?"

"It concerns our mutual associate Professor Ratigan. Unfortunately, it seems that he also survived the fall from St Stephen's Tower." The Baker Street supersleuth, through half-closed eyes, lazily watched Dawson apply a bandage to his chest.

"Confound that beast!" Dawson expostulated fiercely, which caused Basil to give a little chuckle. "You are still able to laugh about this? I envy you. I doubt things have ever looked worse for you, really I do."

Basil felt himself dozing off, despite himself. It had been a long six days and he was, quite frankly, exhausted. Add that to the lack of food, the stress and this news of his public denouncement and the result was that he could barely keep his eyes open.

"I shall deal with it presently, I'm sure. After a good long nap..."


End file.
